Seven hours in a straitjacket (F/f) parts 1-8 complete UPDATE 7/31/23

[TheOldPirate]

Part One: The Bet

A playful grin spread across Isolde's lips as she pulled from a case what Lorelei would later refer to as "The Beast" - a leather straitjacket of daunting complexity. Isolde was a professional escape artist, known for her deftness and cunning, always emerging victorious from the tightest constraints. Lorelei, on the other hand, was an artist of the verbal kind, a journalist, whose world was woven from words, not feats of physical contortion. Today, however, Lorelei had found herself to be the willing victim of Isolde's latest bet.

"I've seen you do it a hundred times, Izzy. It can't be that hard," Lorelei had jested, her lips pulled into a smirk. And with those words, she sealed her fate.

"Oh, really?" Isolde had replied, the twinkle in her eyes revealing her thoughts before she voiced them. "A month's worth of dishes says you can't escape this in seven hours."

Lorelei's eyes widened, flicking from Isolde's smug face to the straitjacket that lay between them. The Beast, as she would soon name it, was an intimidating mix of oxblood leather and gleaming silver buckles. It was obviously custom-designed for Isolde's lithe, athletic frame, and its snug fit promised a challenge. Decorative rivets ran down the spine, reminding her of a dragon's ridged back, and it bristled with a multitude of buckles and straps, a labyrinth of leather and metal. The shoulder straps looked particularly confining, designed to fold the arms tightly against the body, and the underarm straps were studded with what looked like unyielding leather knots.

Having been cajoled into the bet by a mixture of pride and curiosity, Lorelei found herself wriggling into the intimidating garment. Her casual attire of a t-shirt and capri-length yoga pants provided little padding against the relentless snugness of the jacket. Her bare feet curled against the cool hardwood floor as Isolde secured the jacket, tugging at each strap until it bit into Lorelei's soft flesh.

She had expected a degree of tightness, but the intensity of the constriction was unexpected. Her arms crossed over her chest, folded at odd angles, felt foreign and bulky. The jacket, in turn, squeezed her torso, the heavy leather creaking in protest with each shallow breath she drew.

"So," Isolde said, stepping back to admire her handiwork. "Feeling confident?"

Confidence, however, was starting to feel like a distant memory for Lorelei. The reality of the bet was setting in, and she grumbled in response, "I might have bitten off more than I can chew."

The smirk on Isolde's face was insufferable, and Lorelei's irritation bloomed like a dark flower in her chest. This was not the gentle prank she had imagined, but a complete reversal of control. She was pinned like a butterfly in a display case, a knot of frustrated anger uncoiling in her stomach.

Isolde, sensing her discomfort, knelt to meet Lorelei's gaze. "Scared, love?" she teased, her eyes twinkling with amusement.

Lorelei, her pride wounded, spat back, "Hell, no. Just itching to prove you wrong."

Over the next hour, however, her initial annoyance turned into exasperation. The knots, strategically placed and devilishly tight, thwarted her every attempt. Every time she tried to shift her shoulders or wriggle her arms, the leather only bit deeper, restraining her further. The confounded jacket seemed to tighten with each failed escape attempt, laughing at her efforts. A menacing itch was building on her nose, adding insult to injury, and with her arms pinned, she couldn’t even scratch it.

The room was filled with her frustrated grunts and Isolde's stifled giggles. The sense of claustrophobia was growing stronger as the minutes ticked by. Isolde lounged on the couch, munching on popcorn, offering advice, and poking fun at Lorelei’s futile attempts. The sight of her so relaxed only stoked Lorelei's frustration.

"What's the matter, sweetheart?" Isolde chuckled. "Having a little trouble?"

Her words were meant to tease, but the tenderness in her voice soothed Lorelei's fraying nerves. Isolde was enjoying this, that much was clear, but she wasn't cruel.

Lorelei's response was a glare that could melt steel. "When I get out of this," she growled, "you're going to regret every smirk, Izzy."

Amusement twinkled in Isolde's eyes as she lounged back against the cushions. "Oh, I'm quaking in my boots," she replied, her voice thick with mirth.

Lorelei's frustration flared again, a snarl twisting her lips as she strained against the straitjacket. She had six more hours to go, and she was already feeling the strain. Isolde’s smile was as infuriating as it was endearing, and Lorelei couldn’t help the fond smile that ghosted across her face even as her fury bubbled. She was in for a long night, but one thing was certain - she wouldn’t let her wife win without a fight.

[TheOldPirate]

Part Two: The Struggle

As Lorelei moved into the second hour of her confinement, the straitjacket’s unyielding grip only increased. The leather dug into her skin, adding a constant pressure to the discomfort of her immobility. Her initial fury had somewhat subsided, replaced by a sense of grim determination. She wouldn’t let this thing defeat her, she thought, no matter how many failed attempts she endured.

Straitjackets were not new to Lorelei. She had watched Isolde perform hundreds of times, escaping from the inescapable. The standard straitjacket escape techniques relied on creating slack within the jacket. This often involved puffing out the chest while the jacket was being fastened, then deflating it once fully strapped in, or using the motion of dislocating and relocating the shoulder to create enough play in the straps to wriggle one's arm over the head.

However, The Beast was different. It was custom-made to fit Isolde’s body tightly, and its features were designed to counteract the standard escape techniques. The underarm straps that were studded with the unyielding leather knots provided no room for the classic shoulder dislocation trick, and the tailored cut of the jacket provided no extra material to exploit. It was, Lorelei was coming to understand, an escape artist’s nightmare.

Isolde's eyes were alight with delight as she watched Lorelei grapple with her predicament. "How's it going, sweetheart?" she asked, her voice laced with laughter. "Ready to admit defeat?"

Lorelei fixed her wife with a determined glare, her lips curving into a defiant smirk. "In your dreams, Izzy. I'm just getting started."

Boredom set in soon after her bravado. With her arms immobilized, she was at a loss for ways to pass the time. Her eyes fell on a magazine rack across the room. She carefully stood and shuffled over, the straitjacket encasing her like a stubborn second skin. Picking up a magazine seemed impossible with her arms trapped, and the thought filled her with a fresh wave of irritation.

She bent over, trying to grab a magazine with her teeth, but the awkward angle and the straitjacket's restrictive hold made it impossible. Biting back a frustrated growl, she decided to try her feet. Bending her leg at the knee, she tried to use her toes to hook a magazine, but her bare feet slipped off the glossy paper.

Undeterred, she lay down on the floor, aligning her feet with the rack, and after a few more tries, she was finally able to grip a magazine between her toes. The sense of victory, however minor, provided a much-needed boost to her dwindling spirits.

With the magazine held high, she squirmed and wriggled back to the couch, her movements akin to an overturned beetle trying to right itself. The journey across the room was tedious and clumsy, but Lorelei held onto her prize. When she finally reached the couch, dropping the magazine onto the coffee table felt like a victory in itself. With the same determined clumsiness, she wriggled back onto the couch.

By the time Isolde returned, Lorelei had mastered the art of turning the pages with her toes, one leg bent on the coffee table as she scanned the magazine. Isolde’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. "Well, look at you," she said, her voice laced with amusement. "You look positively relaxed."

Lorelei shot her a smug grin, bending over the magazine with the air of a queen on her throne. "I'm adapting. Can't say the same about you and your dishwashing skills, though."

Isolde laughed, a genuine chuckle that echoed around the room. "We'll see about that," she replied before leaving the room.

Once Isolde was gone, Lorelei turned her attention back to the jacket. With renewed determination, she began to pull and tug at the leather, frustration fueling her efforts. The magazine distraction had been a welcome relief, but now the straitjacket was back at the forefront of her mind. She writhed and twisted, her teeth clenched as she pulled at the leather. But, it was to no avail. If anything, the jacket seemed to tighten, the leather creaking as if laughing at her futile attempts.

Exhausted and more frustrated than ever, Lorelei slumped back onto the couch, panting heavily. Two hours down and she was no closer to freedom. With a scowl that could curdle milk, she glared at the vacant spot where Isolde had stood minutes before. "Oh, you're going to pay for this, Izzy," she muttered to the empty room, her vow ringing with determination.

[TheOldPirate]

Part Three: The Breaking Point

As the third hour dragged on, Lorelei's frustration grew. The Beast was relentless; its well-crafted leather bands stood strong against her efforts, the knots and loops providing an impervious barrier against her hopeful escape techniques.

Recalling Isolde's performances, she attempted the over-the-head technique, something she had seen her wife do countless times. This involved pushing her bound arms upwards and over her head, then struggling to free one arm by manipulating it down and over her head. It was a long shot, but desperation made her daring. She stood, stretching as much as the straitjacket allowed, trying to gain some vertical leeway. But the tailored underarm straps, coupled with the knots, stymied her efforts. Her muscles strained, her face reddened with effort, but her arms remained stuck.

In a fit of panic, Lorelei began to thrash violently. Her movements were wild, unfocused, spurred by a mounting desperation. She found herself on the floor, her body convulsing as she tried to wrench her limbs free. Her world narrowed down to the straitjacket – its tightness, its heat, its complete and utter restriction.

It was a full ten minutes before she could bring herself back under control, her breathing ragged and her body slick with sweat. The straitjacket felt hotter, tighter, as if it was absorbing her panic and reflecting it back at her. She felt the beads of sweat trickling down her face, plastering strands of her hair across her forehead and, maddeningly, through her mouth.

The feeling of the sweaty hair on her tongue, the taste of the salty sweat was repulsive. Panic surged up again. Lorelei began to thrash uncontrollably once more, the jacket creaking as it absorbed the force of her movements.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, she managed to calm herself. Laying on the floor, her chest heaving, she took deep, steadying breaths. Her body ached, her muscles protested the rigorous, fruitless battle against the straitjacket. But she had no choice but to get up. With a grunt, she rolled over and painstakingly made her way to her feet.

Stepping into the kitchen, she spotted Isolde. Her wife looked up from her coffee, an eyebrow arched in surprise. "Well," she said, her voice light. "You look like you’ve had a workout."

"I need help," Lorelei croaked, her voice raw from the exertion. Her eyes pleaded with Isolde, her body language screaming frustration and fatigue.

Isolde set her coffee down, her playful demeanor evaporating. She walked over, pulling the matted hair from Lorelei’s face, tucking the errant strands behind her ears. "Lore," she said softly. "I didn’t think…"

"I just need a break," Lorelei interrupted, her voice stronger now. "I need a shower, and to get this hair out of my face. I can't stand being so sweaty and… and hot in this thing." She wanted to add, 'And I want this blasted thing off', but she swallowed the words. She wasn’t ready to admit defeat, not yet.

Isolde nodded, understanding flashing in her eyes. "I can help with the hair, at least," she said. "But the jacket…" She left the words hanging, her eyes conveying her apology.

Exhausted and on the brink of defeat, Lorelei nodded. She wasn't ready to lose the bet, but the relief of having her hair out of her face and the knowledge that Isolde understood her struggle, brought a small measure of comfort. And for now, that would have to be enough.

[TheOldPirate]

Part Four: Desperate Measures

Isolde ran her fingers through Lorelei's hair, attempting to untangle the wet, matted strands that stuck to her face. The effort was futile; her hair was plastered down by a combination of sweat and her own exertion.

"Damn it, Izzy," Lorelei growled, turning away. The frustration bubbled in her voice, leaking into her words. "It's pointless."

"I'm trying, love," Isolde said softly, her hands falling away. She fetched a glass of water, dropping a straw into the tumbler before handing it over.

At first, Lorelei glared at the glass, reluctant to accept it. Her parched throat, however, had other ideas. She extended her mouth towards the straw, the water soothing her dry throat. A sense of calm settled over her; her clenched muscles eased, if only a bit.

"I give up, Isolde," she said, breaking the silence. The words echoed in the room, ringing with resignation. "Just let me out."

But Isolde shook her head, her gaze firm. "You know the rules, Lorelei. Seven hours unless you can free yourself."

A wave of pleading and bargaining washed over Isolde, from promises of foot massages to threats of withholding her favorite lasagna, Lorelei tried every trick in the book. When those failed, she resorted to anger, her voice growing louder, more desperate. But Isolde stood her ground, unwavering in the face of Lorelei's desperation.

In a fit of frustration, Lorelei stomped her foot, the sound echoing loudly in the silent room. She spun on her heel and stormed out, her bare feet thudding against the hardwood floors. A new plan had taken root in her mind, fueled by her desperation.

She would go to the neighbours. Sure, the idea of her neighbours seeing her like this was embarrassing, but she was beyond the point of caring. All she wanted was to be free from the straitjacket’s relentless grip.

Her spirits lifted at the thought, and she quickly made her way to the front door. But as she reached it, her hopes deflated like a punctured balloon. The deadbolt was locked, the chain fastened, and the doorknob, well… Without the use of her hands, unlocking the door was near impossible.

Lorelei stared at the door, her heart sinking. The desperation washed over her again, a tidal wave threatening to drag her under. She was so close, and yet, so far. Stranded at the door, she once again felt the full weight of her predicament. She was trapped, and there seemed to be no escape.

The frustration consumed her, filling her veins with a potent mix of anger and defeat. The straitjacket seemed to tighten around her, a cruel reminder of her situation. The hours loomed ahead, a daunting obstacle standing between her and freedom.

[TheOldPirate]

Part Five: Trials at the Threshold

There Lorelei stood, a woman on a mission, her spirit undaunted in front of the formidable triple-locked door. She knew the first challenge to be the slide chain lock. It was within reach, just slightly above her shoulder. And so, she leaned into it, using her nose to try and slide the metal chain over to the open position.

Again and again, she tried, nudging the chain inch by inch until it teetered on the edge of the notch. Each time, just when victory seemed within grasp, it would slip back to its original position. This ritual repeated itself once, twice, three times, each attempt draining her energy and dampening her spirits.

The taste of the cold metal on her lips and tongue was distasteful, but she had no choice. One… two… three… four times she pushed the chain to the precipice, only to watch it retreat at the last moment. But on the fifth attempt, a flick of her tongue and a well-aimed nudge from her nose finally paid off. The chain slid across the notch and hung free. Victory.

Next was the deadbolt lock, a bigger challenge. The metal was cold, unwelcoming to the touch of her tongue. Several minutes of struggle followed, her mouth working around the alien taste, trying to twist the lock open. No success. The taste of metal filled her mouth, intensifying her frustration.

Plan B involved her elbow and shoulder. She pushed and prodded at the deadbolt, straining her body to its limit. The sweat was back, trickling down her face, burning her eyes. She strained and pushed until she could no longer bear it.

She sank to the floor, her mind racing with her next strategy. It was then that she considered her feet, the dexterity of her toes. With new resolve, she lay on her back and brought her legs up, bending at the knee. Her toes wriggled tentatively at the deadbolt, the muscles of her foot straining with the unfamiliar task. The surface was slippery against her sweaty skin, but she persevered. It was maddeningly close a few times, the bolt shifting, teasing her with the promise of freedom. And then, finally, the sweet sound of success – the bolt slid back, the deadbolt was unlocked.

She took a moment to bask in the success, but the final challenge loomed large. The doorknob. A spherical impediment standing between her and her desperate need for freedom. The battle was far from over.

[slackywacky]

A great continuation.

I would just suggest to add new chapters as replies to the first chapter, that way you don't have to search for the other chapters. Now people will read the second chapter and wonder if there is a third or fourth or fifth (which there are)

[slackywacky]

She wasn’t ready to admit defeat, not yet.

I know that feeling

[slackywacky]

Darn, I missed chapter 4...

[TheOldPirate]

Part Six: The Threshold Crossed

The doorknob lock was the final hurdle between Lorelei and her escape. The lock was minute, the ideal nemesis for her tired, sweaty feet. She held her legs aloft, her toes skidding off the tiny lock again and again. Her legs ached with the strain of holding them up in such an unnatural position, the muscles protesting each attempt. Eight attempts, eight failures. She brought her legs down, panting heavily. The straitjacket now seemed even tighter, an iron grip on her chest.

Her heart pounded in her chest, the jacket was heavier than ever, pressing down on her shoulders and arms. The material was slick with sweat, making it feel unbearably hot and sticky. Her frustration bubbled over; she was on the edge of desperation.

But she was not ready to admit defeat. She wiped her sweaty feet on the carpet, drying them off before she tackled the stubborn lock again. With drier feet, she felt renewed confidence and after three more attempts, a triumphant click echoed in the silent hallway. The tiny lock on the doorknob finally gave in to her tenacity.

Next, she had to turn the doorknob, a round, slippery opponent. She tried and failed, once, twice, her feet sliding off the slick surface, her legs aching from the effort. The sweat made her skin sticky, an uncomfortable sensation that amplified her irritation. Exhausted, she lay on the floor, trying to catch her breath, her feet drying on the rug. In a final Herculean effort, her toes, with the combined force of her anger, frustration, and sheer will, turned the knob. The door creaked open. And then, in a moment of cruel irony, her foot pushed it shut again.

She pounded her feet on the floor in a fit of petulance, hot tears of frustration welling in her eyes. Another attempt, and the door swung open again, only for her foot to push it shut. The pattern repeated, once, twice, three times.

But the fourth time, her toes managed to hold onto the door, pulling it open. The cold outdoor air brushed against her overheated skin, a soothing balm against her frustration. The fresh air, laden with the scent of the waning winter, filled her lungs, cooling her heated body. She lay on the threshold for several minutes, relishing the relief.

With a great effort, she pushed herself to her feet and stepped outside. The biting cold seeped into her bare feet from the icy cement, a cruel reminder of the remnants of snow in the yard's shadowy corners. It was almost instinctual, the urge to turn around and rush back into the warmth of her home. But she steeled herself. She was determined to be free from the restrictive grasp of the straitjacket.

Her eyes scanned the deserted street, not a soul in sight. It was a crushing realization – there was nobody around to help her. But Lorelei was a woman possessed by a singular goal – freedom. She steeled herself against the cold, and started her slow, shivering walk to the nearest neighbor's house. She hoped they would answer her peculiar knock and come to her rescue. Her knock - a mere thud of her shoulder against their front door.

[TheOldPirate]

Darn, I missed chapter 4...

It's up there.

[TheOldPirate]

Part Seven: The End of the Ordeal

The frigid air outdoors caressed Lorelei's flushed face, offering brief respite from the straitjacket’s sweltering grasp. The intense cold, a stark contrast to her overheated body, was a bittersweet relief. However, the winter chill quickly turned vicious as it bit into her sweaty, dampened skin. The concrete under her bare feet felt like ice, a chilling discomfort that sent shivers up her spine. Undeterred, she trudged down the driveway, a prisoner in search of her freedom.

Her ordeal was far from over, the end of the driveway had a carpet of gravel, sharp and jagged. Her bare feet winced at the sight. Tentatively, she stepped onto the stinging rocks, each pointed stone a needle against her tender soles. She recoiled, the pain unbearable. Lorelei peered down the deserted street, a plea for help in her eyes, but found only silence greeting her.

The chilling wind, once a temporary relief, was now a cruel tormentor. Shivering, her body protested the unbearable cold. With a heavy heart, she retreated. As she stepped back into her house, shutting the door behind her felt like closing a vault – a prisoner once more. The warmth of her home, a stark contrast to the winter chill outside, did little to lift her spirits. A frustrated sigh escaped her lips as she sank to her knees, the weight of her defeat a heavy burden on her shoulders. She crumpled onto the floor, landing on her back, her chest heaving with exhaustion.

After a few moments of respite, a wave of defiance surged within her. She twisted, thrashed, writhed, the straitjacket seemingly an unbreakable bond. The frenzied struggle drained her last ounces of energy, leaving her hot, sweaty, and panting. Her hair, now soaked in perspiration, clung to her face, adding to her discomfort. She laid there on the verge of unconsciousness, the once lively Lorelei now a defeated, exhausted mess.

And then, like an oasis in a desert, Isolde's face appeared in her blurred vision. “Okay, time to let you out,” she said, her voice a sweet melody to Lorelei's ears. Isolde helped the defeated woman to her feet, her fingers futilely trying to brush away the sweat-soaked strands of hair sticking to Lorelei’s face.

With practiced ease, Isolde undid the straitjacket, freeing Lorelei in mere seconds. Lorelei wanted to be angry at the simplicity of her release, but her exhausted body refused to muster up any more energy for outrage. She sagged into Isolde’s arms, her strength completely drained.

With a gentle hand, Isolde supported Lorelei as they walked to the bathroom. Isolde helped her shower, washing away the sweat and discomfort of the ordeal. After patting her dry, they climbed into their bed, their bodies fitting together like two pieces of a jigsaw. As the tendrils of sleep started to pull her under, Lorelei murmured an apology for underestimating the struggle to escape.

Isolde’s voice, soft and comforting, revealed a secret: Lorelei had been trapped in a real straitjacket, unlike the rigged ones that Isolde had always made look so easy to escape from. As sleep finally claimed her, Lorelei vowed to herself that she would soon see Isolde struggle and fail in the inescapable straitjacket. A slight smile played on her lips as she slipped into unconsciousness, a hint of revenge sweetening her dreams. The end of her ordeal promised a new beginning, one where Isolde would have her turn to dance with the inescapable straitjacket.

[TheOldPirate]

Epilogue: Turnabout's Fair Play

A muffled yelp echoed through the room, the source of the sound being Isolde, tied up securely in the inescapable straitjacket. Sweat ran down her face in rivulets, dripping onto the jacket that constricted her movements. The white fabric was stained with patches of dampness, a testament to Isolde's fruitless struggles.

Lorelei, comfortably seated on the couch, observed Isolde's desperate attempts to escape with an amused smirk. A bottle of nail polish rested on the coffee table, its contents being carefully applied to Lorelei's toenails, one by one.

"Mmmmmpppphhh!" Isolde’s protestations were reduced to unintelligible grunts, her words muffled by the ball gag strapped securely into her mouth.

"Hmm?" Lorelei raised a perfectly arched eyebrow, her focus never leaving her pedicure. "I'm sorry, I didn't quite catch that." Her tone was teasing, the corners of her mouth twitching with the effort of suppressing a grin.

Isolde's eyes glared defiantly at her, her cheeks flushed with frustration. "Mmmmph mmmph mrrrmmm!"

With an exaggerated sigh, Lorelei set her nail polish aside and looked up at Isolde. "Now, now, I really can't understand a word you're saying with that ball in your mouth, darling," she chided lightly, her eyes twinkling with mirth.

Isolde's response was a vehement wriggle and another muffled exclamation. The straitjacket held firm, each struggle only emphasizing her predicament.

Tilting her head to one side, Lorelei studied Isolde, her gaze lingering on the straitjacket, then moved back to her nearly dried toenails. "Remember, you have...let's see," she glanced at the ornate clock on the wall, "Oh, about six more hours to go. Might want to save your energy, dear."

The only response Lorelei received was a gagged grunt and a seething glare. A soft chuckle escaped her lips as she picked up the nail polish again, shaking it before starting on her other foot. The tables had certainly turned, and Lorelei intended to savor every minute of it.

[slackywacky]

Great story. Thank you for sharing. Hope to see more of our ladies.